Dagorlad
by Vidicon666
Summary: Things go differently at the Battle of Dagorlad and afterwards as an old lie, and some old enemies catch up with Sauron. Sequel to Grief.


**Dagorlad**

The battle was not going well. The armies of elves and men and dwarves had taken up position on the field opposing the forces of Sauron, but there was dissent among them, dissent among the Eldar especially. Oropher and Mardír had violently disagreed when asked to subordinate themselves and their people to the strategies and councils of Gil-galad. Elrond, Herald of the High King, was worried. Dissension within the ranks had caused the downfall of many armies in his lifetime, more even in the histories with which he was familiar.

And the opposing armies were to be feared. They might not be as numerous and filled with beings of power as the battles in the days before his birth, but then the numbers and the strength of the Elves and Men had declined as well. The mighty Dwarven host under Durin was a great comfort to him, not the least by knowing that all the free people were united in this final struggle, hopefully the last to be fought against the Great Enemy or his minions. He knew Gil-galad was a mighty warrior and he was himself born of a high house, but only Galadriel remained of the noble Noldor who had come across the sea from Valinor and Celeborn was the last of the Teleri. Only the fact that no dragons or Balrogs opposed them allowed him to hope. But the sheer numbers of the Enemy brought fear to his heart and the dark creations of Sauron were frightening enough to men and elves both.

He had taken up his position on a hill slightly forward of the main lines, to allow the banners and trumpet calls that Gil-galad needed to direct his forces to be seen, his Herald's Guard surrounding him. A messenger ran from the main lines to his position, clad in a russet brown cloak and rough leggings wound thickly around his lower legs and with a great bow on his back, obviously a sylvan elf from the forces of Amdír or Oropher. Elrond worried about those lightly armoured forces, worried too about the anger he had felt in the kings, who felt that they were not taken seriously by the men of Westernesse and the High King of the Noldor. The messenger arrived at his lines and was quickly let through. Elrond waited for the messenger to speak to him, but the man merely pointed an arm in the direction of the enemy lines.

The sound of drums started and from across the plain a terrible roar of orcs, trolls and men came; and the armies of the Dark surged forward, like a black wave of an angry sea. Gil-galad raised his banner and Elrond ordered the standard bearers to repeat the orders shown below it. And then the ground erupted around their position and a regiment of great mountain trolls, huge and scaled and grey, rose from the earth and assaulted the guards surrounding him and a cold fear tried to assault his heart as he saw one of the Nazgûl leading them. There were dozens of the trolls and his guard, though doughty and brave, would soon be cut down. The forces of the Alliance were too far away. Elrond knew himself to be lost and made ready to sell his life dearly.

The trolls broke through his lines by sheer weight of numbers and bodies, despite the biting blades of his guard, three great trolls and the Nazgûl leader were almost upon him and he raised his sword and shield to meet them. The Nazgûl smote his shield with a huge mace and great force and one of the trolls chose that moment to beat down upon his sword, unbalancing him further. He fell to the ground, as the Nazgûl struck again, cold running up his arm from the blow. _*So__much__for__selling__my__hide__dearly*._

The thought flashed wryly through his mind and for some strange reason so did the face of a beautiful silvery haired maiden. The Nazgûl's sword came down once more and was suddenly intercepted. He heard a heavy thud and he saw and felt the great troll chief go down. A towering form stood above him, sword and shield in hand, cloak thrown back, rough leggings bound around the lower legs hiding the greaves and poleyns of a suit of armour of a type Elrond had not seen since the days of Beleriand.

The elf's sword blazed with a deep blue light and from his eyes and form burst forth a great incandescent white fire. A great voice sounded from him, first in Quenya and then in Sindarin. "For the House of Finwë! Honour to the High King!"

The Nazgûl flinched back before the light and the great sword slashed through the neck of another troll, then the elf stood in front of Elrond, holding back three trolls without any obvious effort. Elrond heard the voice in his mind. _%Get__up__lad,__I__can__'__t__hold__them__off__alone__for__ever!__No__lazing__about__during__battle.%_

The voice in his mind froze him in place. His mind reeled at the touch so long gone, at the worry that obviously lay beneath the flippant remark.

He did not respond or move and the voice came into his mind again, now really worried and obviously distressed. "Elrond? El are you wounded?" Despite the worry the elf found the chinks in the defences of two more trolls who went down in gurgling heaps.

Elrond took a deep breath and responded to the mind's touch. "No. No I am alright." He rose and took up his position on the front line, next to the new arrival who, now that he no longer needed to defend the prone Herald, began chopping down trolls in earnest, shouting encouragement at the guards, ordering the wounded moved back. His light had gone out as if it had never been there, but Elrond could not feel the presence of the Nazgûl. The creature must have fled before the wrath of the great Eldar. Elrond felt the voice in his head once more.

_%Elrond, move your force back to the main lines, I will hold them back here.%_

The remark stirred something deep within Elrond: worry. _%You__will__be__surrounded!__They__will__bear__you__down__and__kill__you!%_ he thought at the other elf.

A wry chuckle sounded in his mind. %I doubt it is my fate to die on this battle field, but if I do, so be it. At least it will be for a worthy cause.%

Elrond was about to object again, but he noted that the Trolls' attack had been broken, the loss of their leaders and the retreat of the ringwraith having disheartened them. _%There__will__not__be__much__of__an__attack__to__hold__back.%_

The older man looked after the fleeing double handful of trolls and the six dozen that lay dead around the hill. For the first time he spoke, a deep vibrant voice, yet curiously dead and lifeless. "True. But I cannot join the king's lines. I will be there if you need me." He pointed to the north east where the sylvan elves had broken line with the rest of the army and had stormed forward. A white light suddenly blazed among their lines, holding back the tide of darkness. "I must go help Maïtimo. Be well, Elrond son of Ëarendil and Elwing."

Elrond look after the running form as he led his men, carrying and supporting their wounded, to the main lines before the orcs arrived. He whispered to himself as a tear ran down his cheek. "Be well, Makalaurë, my father."

Oropher had fallen, Thranduil had seen it happen. He had been unable to help. Amdír's banner had gone down and he knew that the king of Lorién was most likely also dead. His people would be mowed down. There were Nazgûl before them and his brave, bright people were falling; the orcish arrows were dealing great damage even before they even met the orcs in melee. Thranduil was aware of the deaths about him, feeling the ending of the life of every one of his people. And then there was a Noldo there. He had not thought that a Noldo was charging with them, yet here one was, bigger than any he had seen, even Gil-galad, his hair a bright auburn under his helm and with a shield tied to his right arm while in his left hand he wielded a huge sword, long and slim and deadly, easily of a size with Elendil's great Narsil. Thranduil knew he had not met this man earlier, yet he felt like a great captain of the Noldor.

A terrible smile hovered around the Noldo's lips as he hewed his way through rows of orcs, his very presence lending courage and support to the woodland elves. He stooped and raised a young elf, little more than a boy and placed him behind himself, shielding him from the arrows. He moved closer to Thranduil, the young elf behind him, still mowing orcs, sometimes ducking a blow from a troll before moving in to kill it smoothly. Thranduil had never seen anyone move with such deadly grace in combat, ever. Even Gil-galad, even Glorfindel did not fight with the utter confidence and skill that this man showed.

A terrible light came up into the stranger's eyes and his sword and whole body blazed with it. He stalked, slaying a half dozen orcs on his way there, up to the Nazgûl, who stood over Oropher's body, gloating, ready to defile the fallen king and the evil thing seemed to quail.

"Hello little spirit. I have slain balrogs and spat in the eye of your master when he was still Morgoth's lapdog. Would you care to face me?"

To Thranduil's surprise the wraith edged back as the light from the elf struck it, almost seeming fearful. The elf grinned and strode forward. "Gothmog feared me, little wraith, little ghost of a little man. For I was considered great among the children of the Eldar. And far though I may have fallen, my arm is still strong enough and my spirit fierce enough to help rout the likes of you!"

The elf raised his huge sword and the wraith fled, followed by many of the orcs and foul men. As he turned towards Thranduil, the young king saw that the hand of the right, shield, arm was missing. His eyes widened in shock, his hands whitening as he strengthened the grip on sword and shield; he took an involuntary step backward from the man about whom he had heard so many terrible tales. The smile on the face of the auburn haired elf faded and Thranduil could see him hunker in on himself a little; knowing he had been recognized.

The Noldo sheathed his sword and strode towards the body of Oropher, lifting the banner of the woodland king and held it aloft, shouting a curse towards the retreating orcs. He handed it to the young elf he had rescued, who still followed him like a shadow. Lifting the body next he carried it to Thranduil and placed it gently into his arms. "Take your men and as many of your fallen as you may, Oropherion. The orcs are fled but they may regroup soon and your people's armour will not hold out their arrows."

Thranduil's tears ran down his face as he held his father's cooling body but the look he gave to the auburn haired elf was defiant, questioning. "Why? Why are you here?"

The tall elf had walked away and picked up Oropher's weapons and placed them into the arms of a nearby warrior. "Enough of your people have died because of me. I would prevent any more deaths, if I had the power." He did not look up as he spoke. A deep grief and despair sounded through in the words and Thranduil felt it in his heart and bones.

Thranduil heaved a deep breath, gathering his father's still body closer to his chest. "Thank you. Thank you for my people."

The one handed elf gestured to the south, where the forces of Loriën were retreating, the banner of Amdír held high and his body carried by his son. Another tall elf in ancient armour stood and held ground there. "Take your people back to the main lines Thranduil, lest they suffer even worse losses."

Despite himself, Thranduil bowed his head at the commanding tone of voice. He turned and led his people back to the battle lines, seeing how the Noldor and the men strove to reach his people. He felt behind him the meeting of the two great brothers of a fallen house, holding their ground to cover his retreat, and for the first time in his life felt pity for the sons of Faënor.

The tide of darkness had shattered against the Herald's guard and the reckless assault of the sylvan elves had led to fewer losses than Gil-galad had initially feared. But still the battle was not going well. The might of Sauron was greater than the forces of the Alliance had hoped. They would win, but the cost would be great, too few of the elves could hold their own against the dark might of the Nazgûl.

He wondered who had broken ranks among his household guard to go to the aid of the Woodland elves. It was a generous and courageous act, that had possibly saved hundreds of lives but he would have a firm word with them. His orders had been clear and the attack might have broken the discipline of the Noldor forces. He would have to devise a suitable punishment, to honour the bravery yet let his displeasure be known.

It was dark in the tunnels, dark and warm. There was nothing in them but the smell of sulphur and the oppressive heat from the furnaces of the vulcano. It was too far from the great magma vents for their glare to light the dark. But the thing that hid there had no use for it. Utterly black, bent almost double its eye sockets were weeping sores, tracks of blood and puss running down the burned and scarred cheeks. Its feet were devoid of toes, its hands shorn of fingers except for a single hacked off nub of flesh were once the fourth finger of the right hand had been. On the nub a dark and ugly iron ring had grown into the scar tissue, almost covering the metal in places. The thing muttered to itself incessantly, in a low growl, its tong split and slivered by cruel knives. Its ears had long been gone, its nose was nothing but a widely splayed rank piece of flesh. A rock was in the left hand and a rough piece of iron, little more than a sharpened bar, yet shining with a deadly light was in its right. It seemed to be looking for something. It gently put the rock down on the ground, patted it as if it were a small animal. Then it moved off into the tunnels.

The thing could not go fast, it was too broken for that, yet it moved with great purpose. Its crippled yet eerily silent steps held no hesitation due to fear. It had been a long time since the Thing had felt anything but anger and hate. Anger and hate towards its enemy were the only fuel its shivered husk seemed to require. It could no longer remember exactly it if had ever been different but it no longer mattered. Anger and hate was all it needed, vengeance on the one who had destroyed so much was the only thing It could still think of. Whatever beauty it had once known, whatever joy had once lain within had been excised as surely as its eyes.

It felt its goal not far away and moved haltingly yet surely towards it on crippled, oft broken legs. It was silent now, its mutterings ceased, not even the slightest noise coming from its tortured and parched throat. It went deeper into the mountain and the heat increased, touching the pitted cheeks, the shattered nose. Yet unerringly it found its way. The vast room it found itself in was full of heat and the light of flowing, burning earth. Flames shot up out of the deep cracks but the black thing ignored them. The heat was no greater than before and it had no eyes to accustom to the change in light. It felt its enemy. There was nothing else. The thing felt nothing but elation. Its enemy had weakened itself. Its power was no longer whole, but split in two. If it could but just separate the two it would be far easier to destroy him than it would have thought. The power was on its right hand as well. Deep within it a smile blossomed, a smile that the lipless mouth could no longer form. A hand or finger would be easy to sever.

With a sudden powerful movement of its bent and crooked legs it sprang forward, throwing itself at the form it could not see but only feel, the knife glowing brighter, but not as bright as the thing itself, a sudden terrible white light filled the foul smelling chamber. The knife came down with unstoppable force and the thing felt the powers separate. His enemy screamed. He could feel others there, but did not mind them. The mutilated hands grabbed the tall form in, its spiked armour no protection against the terrible anger that burned deep within the chest of the black Thing. It lifted the enemy, felt its weak struggles, futile struggles as he had lost his Power, and threw him, with all of its force, into the wide, burning chasm it could feel before it. A terrible scream, filled with anger and hate and fear rang from the enemy's mouth before he struck the burning magma. The servants of his enemy fled, fearing the wrath of whatever had slain their master. The Thing shouted a guttural cry of joy and elation, lifting its knife, covered in burning, black blood to the sky that could be vaguely seen far above. The light within it went out. It doubled over again, wracked by terrible pain and shuffled back into the darkness.

The armies of the Lords of the West stood at bay, the great hordes of the Enemy opposing them across the plain. Gil-galad stood next to his captains, his face stern and composed. "They are many, but so are we, and we are the more valiant and the better warriors." He raised his arm, his spear glinting in the light of the sun. "WE WILL BE VICTORIOUS!" His voice rang out over the battlefield, carrying to the furthest part of the Alliance lines. The spear came down and the hundreds of bows came up, the steel bows of the Numenoréans glinting in the morning sun, the arrows of the elves glinting with deadly intent, the Herald's guard once more ready to take the vanguard position. The arrows flew. The orcs charged, the great trolls in front, carrying a massive iron-plated shields to keep the arrows from striking the forces behind them. If they stood still, the elves would cut them to pieces. Gil-galad knew that after one more defeat they could begin the siege. Orcs did not have very high morale and even the Dark Lord knew that they would not fight well just out of fear for him. To be killed by an elf or bigger orc, after all, did not make much difference. The orcs charged, led by the nine wraiths, riding their black horses, flanked by the Numenoréans who had fallen to the darkness, their swords gleaming. And then the lines of orcs faltered and the trolls stumbled and the Ringwraiths screamed. In the distance Orodruin belched out a dark cloud and threw up a pillar of flame and gas. A great rumbling flowed over the massed ranks, the ground shook. Orcs and men and elves and dwarves stumbled and fell. The Wraiths spurred their horses and rode back to their lines, which parted and scattered, rode as fast as horseflesh could carry them to the black gates.

And every being on the field knew that Sauron was no more. The Army of the West moved forward, bows singing, spears gleaming, swords shining. And before them the forces of the fallen Dark Lord scattered and fled.

The two men were covered in soot and grime, their gleaming armour splattered with blood and ash, their faces pale and drawn. The tallest of them, and he was very tall standing almost eight feet, spoke almost unbelievingly. He carried a shield in one hand a large sword in the other. "Eru! This mountain will tear itself apart. What in the Name of Manwë happened?" The next tallest, still very tall, hefted his shield above his head, allowing some ash and pumice to strike it instead of his helmeted head. "The Enemy is dead. I felt him fall. Something inside the mountain slew him."

The tallest snorted indecorously and sneezed out a load of ash. "And that I assume, is why we are a currently trying to get into a burning mountain? To see what killed him?"

"I would feel better if I knew. Anything or anyone that can slay Sauron is worth knowing about. Elrond, Cirdan and your sons should be coming back soon. I feel that this road is the only one we can take."

He pointed to the cracked and broken road that led over a widely bridged chasm into the depths of the mountain.

The tall one removed his helmet and put his sword into the sheath, scratching his head and running his hand through his lightly silvered dark hair. "Why did I just know you were going to say that?" He smiled wryly at his friend, his eyes crinkling. "Should we not go in together? It won't be long before the road will be blocked."

His friend removed his helm as well, his long blonde locks falling free. "We might, but I would prefer to have some help."

"So cautious Gil-galad?"

"I have had enough nasty surprises during this war. And a single spear and a dwarven sword are hardly going to be enough. Why don't you get another one, of elven make?" The elf winked.

The tall man drew himself up even taller addressing his friend in mock outrage. "I will have you know that Narsil is an heirloom of my house." Then he shrugged. "Anyway, there are no elven smiths around who can match its craftsmanship." He looked at his friend slyly.

Gil-galad laughed. "You are incorrigible. But you are right we should go in. Pretty soon the way into the mountain _will_ be gone." He looked at the mountain distastefully.

Sighing the blond elf settled his helmet back on his head. "You are right my friend, and maybe the others found their way inside in other ways. I just hope they can find their way out again."

The dark haired man watched the burning flumes of magma erupting from the cracks in the floor of the great cavern. An armless hand was crawling slowly away from the fire, encased in a black gauntlet, burning black blood dripping from the stump, hissing on the even hotter stone. A brightly shining golden ring with red hot letters was on it. He took a few swift steps forward, looking ready to kick the hand into the lava, then hesitated. Skewering the hand to the ground with his sword he knelt and drew his dagger, cut the ring finger off. Lifting the sword he swept the hand into the lava, swiftly drew the ring off and thrust it into his pouch and threw the finger after the hand. The tunnel he had entered through was blocked by falling stones and he turned towards the large tunnel behind him. He heard voices and peered through the ashy gloom. The voices spoke Quenya. He heard a thud and a clang and a curse and grinned. A chuckling light voice replied to the curse.

"Maybe my friend if you cursed Eru a little less he would not let you bump your head so often."

"Maybe if I had not praised him so much as a child I would not have grown so big."

The man by the chasm smiled at the fact they could banter even here. "Father? King Gil-galad?"

"Isildur? Is that you my son?"

"Indeed father. I just threw Sauron's hand in the chasm. I did not see or meet anyone else."

Gil-galad shook his helmeted head. "Something killed Sauron. That would not have been a simple thing to do. They cannot just have disappeared."

The younger man shrugged. "We did have to fight our way through a host of orcs and creatures of darkness to get here, disorganized though they were. Who ever slew Sauron may have left before we even got here."

Gil-galad nodded. "True. And I would not blame them." Watching a rockslide fall into the lava he sighed. "It would be wise to get out of this mountain as soon as possible. We had better go and see what poor wretches we may save from the dungeons Barad-Dûr."

Anárion was cursing as he walked through the ash rain, leaning sideways on the rocky slope of Orodruin. In front of him he heard laughter, not the harsh laughter of orcs, but the cruel laughter of men. He hurried forward. They were men of Gondor, tossing a stone from one to the other while a poor, bent and shattered creature followed it, crying in pain as its legs could not carry it fast enough from one soldier to the next to retrieve what it obviously felt to be a great treasure. Its poor whimpering cries tore at the southern king's heart and rage rose within him.

"STOP!" Striding forward he caught the flying stone and in one smooth movement clasped the poor creature and gently placed the stone into its mutilated hands. Finely polished sandstone, he noted. He glared at his men. "Do you have no heart that you must torture one of the Enemy's prisoners so, even after he has been freed? I am ashamed to be your king." The men looked down in shame, unable to meet the King's eye. The King waved his hand. "Go and see if you can find any more of these poor wretches, we must take care of them as best we can."

The men bowed and filed of quickly, properly chastened by his anger. Anárion carefully looked over his new companion. The creature was dressed only in a single ragged cloth belt, nothing more needed for modesty, for it no longer had anything to hide, its manhood long ago having been removed. He stank of urine and feces and blood. Tears of blood and grime ran down its face from eyeless sockets. A wave of deep pity flowed over Anárion at the sight of him. He cared not who this man might have been once, what, if anything, he might have done to end up like he had, no creature made by Eru's hand deserved the fate that had been visited upon it.

Gently leading him away he saw a rough knife on the ground, covered in black patches. Picking up the blade he tucked it in the belt of the creature, into the hole that obviously held it before. Placing his hand around the shuddering shoulders he walked down the mountain, to the camp that was being erected at its foot.

When he approached the camp he saw that the standards of his father and the High King of the Noldor had already been raised. He made his way to the location where the Healing tents would be ignoring the looks of pity and disgust the creature beside him evoked. He felt more than heard the presence of his brother and father, looking around him he saw the men exiting a great tent where the victims of the most recent battle were being treated. Gil-galad walked between them, the tall elf dwarfed by his human friend but of equal height with Isildur. The three saw him at the same time, their faces showing a mixture of horror, revulsion and pity. Gil-galad spoke first. "Elbereth! How can he be alive?"

The creature turned its shaking head from rubbing the smooth sandstone and whispered in a slurred voice, lips gone and tongue sliced.

"Elbreth."

A shuddering sigh ran through the elven king. "One of my people. Come friend, we will care for you." He took the elf's shoulder from Anárion and led him into the tent, handing him over to the elven healers with a soft and unnecessary admonition to do their best.

Exiting the tent, shaking his head, he returned to the ruins of the black tower. There were many more poor wretches still in need of his aid. It would be many hours before any of them could sleep.

In the healing tents the tortured elf was stood in a tub of water and gently washed down. The healers removed the cloth belt and the knife but the elf refused to let go of the stone, running his fingerless hands over and around it again and again. After washing, the elf was still burned black and red, with horrible scar tissue visible and deep dirt engrained into its skin. No trace of hair remained. It was clear that he had once stood much taller, but that the breaking of every bone in his body at one time had reduced his height. Gentle Elven hands washed him and bandaged his few open wounds. The healers studied the hacked of finger and the ring grown into the flesh. The chief healer gently tried to remove the stone but the maimed hands clasped it firmly and the broken head shook in denial. He did not try again, merely lightly running his fingers along the remnants of the hands, assessing if anything was left to work with. He frowned at the ring again, but decided that nothing more could be done for the poor wretch and ordered him to be laid in a cot to sleep. Other victims were being brought in and hopefully he could do more for them than for the poor thing that lay clutching a piece of stone as if it was its life.

They were seated at the high table, the leaders of the armies. Thranduil and Amdír were absent, still mourning their fallen fathers, still getting used to the fact they were now kings, still caring for their wounded. Almost a third of the forces of the sylvan elves had been wounded or killed. A fifth would never return to sing beneath the boughs of the trees. Gil-galad shuddered, guilt wracking him. If only he had been more diplomatic, more willing to compromise. The wood elves were a proud people and they held no great trust towards the Noldor, and they _had_ good reason to mistrust, he had to admit.

At least they had accepted the aid Gil-galad had offered, even if he had to send it through Elendil. He would have to see that they got better weapons and armour too, there were still many orcs at large, despite the fall of Sauron, and certainly the Greenwood held the offspring of Ungolianth. He drew in a breath and looked at his friends and captains. Gildor, his High standard bearer since the days of Nargothrond was sitting with his head in his hands, the only man in the host who bore the escutcheon of the House of Finrod. Elrond, his Herald was slumped in his chair, deeply in thought. Something had happened to Elrond. He knew there was more to the survival of the Herald and his guards than the man was telling, but no doubt he eventually would reveal whatever troubled him. Gil-galad looked at the faces around the table.

"Tomorrow, when Galadriel arrives we shall see to the wounded that are beyond the skills of our healers. First we must rest." Tired by their battles and the emotion of freeing the prisoners the leaders of the Armies of the West went to their tents to sleep and recover.

When Galadriel, garbed in a simple white dress arrived at the High King's tent the next morning she was received gravely by her grand nephew and with restrained delight by her husband. The human Kings merely bowed their heads to her in greeting while Elrond and Cirdan bowed fully. Celeborn bestowed a small kiss on her hand before he sat her down at the table covered in fine linen.

"Good morning great-aunt Galadriel. " Gil-galad, kept his face carefully blank and gave her an innocent smile while taking her hand. Galadriel sighed inwardly at the King's delight in the appellation, born of a long ago conversation when he had been but a child. Yet she was eerily reminded of his grandfather by the twinkle in his eyes and could not find it within herself to reprove him, on this of all mornings. She inclined her head. "Your majesty. I trust you slept well?" In a mental aside to her grand nephew she added _%Without__Foofoo?%_ referring to an old and ragged toy dog he'd had dragged to bed with him as an elfling.

Gil-galad smiled at her jest and raised a hand in welcome and surrender. Then he grew serious. "Galadriel, we know Sauron is dead.. I feel his Ring still survives however. I do not know if it was taken, or lies in a deep crevasse on Orodruin. We do not know who slew Sauron, or what happened to the Ring. We may never find out. All we can do at this time is to empty Barad-Dûr of all its horrors and tortured prisoners, and give them what help and support we may."

Galadriel nodded gravely. "Are there many survivors?"

She could feel the tension in the men.

Gil-galad nodded, deep grief brimming in his eyes. "More than we would like."

Closing her eyes briefly as she realized what he meant she briefly remembered the horrors of those released from the dungeons of Angband. Galadriel felt her hand carefully grasped by her husband's and gently squeezed, all under the cover of the tablecloth that lay upon their knees. Squeezing in return in gratitude for his support she rose.

"Then with your permission I will go see to them." Gil-galad and the other men rose and bowed as she gracefully moved off, followed closely by Celeborn and Elrond and at a greater distance by the others.

As the group neared the tents of the Healers an unearthly keening became louder and louder, a noise of sorrow and mourning, of a heart utterly bereft of all comfort. Galadriel quickened her pace and Anárion, recognizing the sound from the night before, hurried to catch up. Inside the tent the tortured elf sat, held down on a folding stool by several healers as the Chief healer carefully rubbed his hands, and especially the stump of his finger, with salve.

Only Celeborn saw the look of anguish that crossed his lady's face as she set eyes upon the poor wreck that once had been an elf, before she strode purposefully towards the scene.

"Are his hands so sensitive Amronoth?"

The Healer rose and shook his head. "No your majesty, the scar tissue is old and it is a miracle if he has any sensation in them at all. I fear I do not know what distresses him so."

Anárion looked around, seeing the stone lying on the cot. "He wants his stone."

The elven healer shrugged. "He would not let go of it. We had to take it from him, but it lies quite near."

Galadriel sighed in exasperation, so softly that only her husband and Anárion, who were closest to her, could hear it.

"Then we give it back. It would have been simple to place it on his lap Amronoth." The healer looked slightly ashamed of himself as he realized her words were true.

Stepping over to the cot she grasped the stone and knelt before the crying man, placing the stone carefully in his reaching hands. The healer winced as her dress was befouled by the bodily excretions of the wretch which had drained from him into a puddle below the stool.

"My lady, your dress…"

Galadriel turned to him, eyes blazing. "It you think for one minute that any dress is worth the discomfort of this poor man for even a minute Amronoth, I would suggest you find a different calling!"

The creature made a gasping sound and the queen, rising and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, leant nearer to hear if he might be speaking. A few slurred sounds emerged from the toothless mouth, too soft to hear by any but Galadriel.

Galadriel staggered back from the sitting man, both her hands before her mouth, white as a sheet. Before even Celeborn could act she had collapsed on the floor in a dead faint.

When Galadriel awoke her dress and shift were gone, replaced by a clean nightgown. She was lying on a comfortable camp cot that smelled of her husband. She could hear him stir and feel his worried mind next to her, warmly supportive both on the physical and mental level. Her long slender fingers lay carefully cradled in his larger, sword roughened hand. She knew he was worried, never in their long marriage and acquaintance had she ever fainted. She took a deep shuddering breath but did not open her eyes.

Celeborn squeezed her fingers lightly. "What happened my love? What did he say to you?"

A tremble ran through her body. "You did not harm him?" She asked anxiously.

"The poor wight? No beloved, he is sleeping on his cot in the healers' tent."

She shuddered again. "Are any of Sauron's jailors or torturers still alive?"

Celeborn blinked at the sudden change in subject. "A few. We are to execute them over the next couple of days, after questioning. We need to find out the names of as many of his victims as we possibly can. Why beloved?"

Galadriel opened her eyes and he looked into twin maelstroms of raging anger and grief, not the tranquil pools of sea grey he had long ago become used to. Her voice grated out of her throat in a way he had never heard before. "Give me your sword."

Realizing immediately what she intended Celeborn loosened her hand and grasped her shoulders. "No Galadriel. You swore off the sword when we moved to Lindon. Please."

She looked at him, eyes full of an unspeakable grief. "Beloved, what did he say?"

Gathering her closer he held her head to his shoulder, rubbing his hands across her head and back, murmuring sweet nothings. It had been very long since he had to give her comfort like this. He could feel her anguished sobs, felt the trickle of her tears through his thin linen shirt.

"Artanis…" She shuddered violently.

"Beloved, I am sorry we should have told you. We knew he is a Noldo."

She drew in a deep breath. "He said, Artanis, please don't get your dress dirty, you know mother will blame me."

Celeborn's hands tightened on her shoulders as he realized what his wife meant. He whispered curses under his breath. "It can't be beloved. You know all your brothers have been in the Halls of Mandos for an Age."

"If only I could believe that to be true. If only those were not the words Ingoldo always spoke to me when I went out to play as a girl."

Celeborn rose, gently pulling her up with him. "We must go see Gil-galad. He ought to be able to confirm it, if it is true."

He helped her rise and held a dress out for her, lacing it up the back with the practiced ease of long marriage. Leading her out of the tent with his arm around her shoulders they made their way to Gil-galad's tent. The High King sat at the large table outside, looking over documents, long lists of freed prisoners and slaves, fallen soldiers and captured goods. The king rose immediately when he saw them. "Galadriel." Taking her hand he led her into the tent to grant them some privacy. He stepped closer to her, and looking permission to her husband, enfolded her in a hug.

"How are you? Can you tell me what caused your faint?"

Galadriel gently pushed herself away from him. Her lips were firm but her eyes showed unshed tears. "Yes. He spoke words that make me think he is one of my brothers, most likely Ingoldo."

Gil-galad looked at her with deep compassion. "Galadriel, Great Uncle Ingoldo died in Sauron's dungeon saving Beren. Beren and Luthien buried him. Had he been alive, we would have known."

She shook her head. "Nevertheless, I still believe it is him."

The king ran his hand through his golden hair. "Galadriel…Artanis… Would we not recognize his heart song if it were him? I knew him from a babe. I do not think I would not recognize him if I heard it again."

Galadriel shuddered. "There may not be enough of Ingoldo left in that husk to allow us to hear it."

Gil-galad looked at his herald. "Elrond? Your opinion?"

Elrond had looked momentarily stunned as Galadriel had announced her belief, but now he was pulling uneasily at his lower lip, a habit that only came upon him in times of greatest stress. "Before the battle, I would have said there was no chance for this to be Lord Finrod."

Gil-galad looked at him, a question in his eyes. "Before the battle? What do you mean?"

"I spoke to Thranduil. When the forces of the Sylvan elves attacked a single Noldo appeared on their flank and managed to save a great many of them by covering their retreat after the fall of Oropher. A Noldo so powerful that the Nazgûl fled before him."

"That was one man? The way the Enemy's line reacted I thought it had to be at least a squad." Gil-galad looked thoughtful, his eyes flicking to a nearby tent. "Glorfindel? I thought he was on the right flank…"

"No, he was with us the whole time. Thranduil described the Noldo as very tall, and with bright red hair."

Galadriel looked at the young loremaster with surprise as the man continued hesitantly. "And only one hand."

"Maïtimo!" The name whispered from Galadriel's shocked lips.

"Yes. And…" Elrond ran a weary hand over his eyes, suddenly brimming with tears. "And when I was separated from you, my king, and about to fall…"

Gil-galad nodded, realizing his herald was about to reveal what had upset him. "You were rescued by an elf you did not recognize, yes you told me."

Elrond's breath shuddered from him. "I recognized him, sire. I just could not believe it was him, did not want to believe it was him." His next words were whispered so softly they could barely be heard. "So desperately wished it was him…"

Elendil walked to his kinsman and clasped his arms with both his large hands. "Surely not…Makalaurë?"

Anguished eyes met his, and then furtively strayed to his king, shame set deep within them. "Yes. Makalaurë."

Gil-galad ran a hand over his face. "Eru, Elrond, why did you not tell me before!"

"Because…I feared that…"

Galadriel voice was soft and understanding. "You feared Gil-galad's reaction. You feared for Makalaurë."

Elrond's voice shook as he spoke. "He hewed his way through a line of trolls and covered my body with his as I gained my feet. He told me to get back to our lines, he would cover my retreat. I had to allow him a chance, an opportunity. I hoped he would come forward…" Tears were now pouring down his cheeks, and he fell to his knees before his king. "Forgive me, your majesty, for I allowed my feelings to interfere with your justice."

Gil-galad stepped to his friend and raised him up. "Elrond, the Doom that lies upon those two is greater than any justice that I can mete out. And despite everything, he was once your father."

Elrond ran his hand over his eyes, wiping away his tears. His usual reserve returned. "However, as those two fought on our side, and Maïtimo, despite what we thought we knew, was then still alive, King Ingoldo may be as well."

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow. "King? Nargothrond is no more."

Elrond gave his liege a small smile. "But he would be the oldest eligible living male of the House of Finwë, and therefore High King of the Noldor."

Galadriel smiled at Gil-galad's stunned expression and Cirdan grinned. Celeborn developed a suspicious cough, while Elendil and his sons did nothing to hide their amusement, laughing heartily. The High king sighed.

"I suppose with two legends of the First Age stomping around, it might be possible a third could yet live." He looked at Galadriel. "Though I must admit I fervently hope it is not him."

Galadriel straightened her shoulders and moved to stand next to her husband. "I agree. But fear and hope have little to do with reality, ofttimes."

Gil-galad nodded. "Very well, let all those who remember Ingoldo go to the Healers' Tents and see if we can settle this matter."

They were subdued as they moved towards the Healers' tents. Each was locked into his own thoughts, hoping or fearing as they made their way through the neat camp. Two tall Men in the dress of Gondor stood before the door and inside more Men were busy helping with the wounded. Anárion, who had trailed the party of elves, was surprised to recognize many of those involved in the teasing of the poor elf the night he had found him.

The group's leader, a tall powerful man with a large dent in his forehead from an old wound looked up from where he had been rolling bandages and flushed slightly to see him, then bent his head back to his task. Anárion wondered when, and why, they had decided to offer their services here. He had not intended to punish them knowing that the shame that lay on them would be greater than any reprimand or duty he might impose, but it warmed his heart to see them tending to the victims of the Enemy.

Those who knew Ingoldo best stood looking at the sleeping form under the light blanket. Gildor seemed frozen with a look of anguish on his face, but Gil-galad moved decisively to the left side of the bed, seated himself upon it and laid his ear on the man's scarred chest. Almost reflexively the broken hand came up and gently fondled the King's blonde curls, a murmur rumbling from the red and black pit of his mouth.

Gil-galad's eyes widened and he shook of the hand, collapsed on his knees to the ground beside the bed and vomited up his breakfast in the wash bucket. Gildor was immediately beside him, holding his hair. The High King wiped his mouth with a pale and trembling hand.

"It _is_ him. Oh, Eru, it is him." And the High king of the elves buried his face in his hands and burst into shattering sobs.

The group gathered in Gil-galad's tent included all the leaders of the host of the Alliance, except for the absence of Gildor. The former Captain of the Gates of Nargothrond had taken up station by his former king and refused to budge. The standard bearer sat motionless except for the tears running down his face, holding the shattered king's maimed hand in his own slender if sword calloused ones.

None of those present was unaffected by the news. Elendil had placed the Ring of Barahir in front of him on the table and had been staring at it since then. His sons sat beside him, breathing heavily and occasionally swallowing. Gil-galad sat upon the high seat, with Thranduil and Amroth beside him. Celeborn and Galadriel did not sit at the table; the couple was seated on a small couch, which allowed Galadriel to gain as much comfort as possible from the presence of her husband. Elrond sat nursing a goblet of wine, once more pulling at his lower lip. Glorfindel twisted his long slender fingers around each other, seemingly wishing to strangle something.

Durin, king of Khazad-dûm, who had been in charge of exploring the dungeons below the fallen Tower, was still covered in grime, dirt and ashes. Tear tracks were visible down his cheeks. The admiration and love of the dwarves for the king of Nargothrond had run deep and the realization that the Cave-Hewer was now a broken wreck had shocked many of the dwarves. In Durin's treasury there still were jewels forged by the dwarf-friend, much admired for their beauty and gracious form.

Suddenly Glorfindel spoke. "The only thing we can do is send him to the West. Only the Valar will be able to heal him."

Galadriel sighed. "You are right. But we should do it slowly, let him acclimatize to being in the sun and the light."

Gil-galad nodded. "We will move him to the Anduin and then through the Calenardhorn and in gentle stages to Lindon."

Elendil rubbed his chin. "Or we could send a message to Cirdan's people and have them send a ship to the mouths of the Anduin and use a boat to take Lord Ingoldo to the coast." He looked at Cirdan who nodded that it was feasible

They pondered this. Gil-galad nodded decisively. "You are right. That will be easier on him. Can you send a message through the Palantiri?"

Elendil nodded. "Yes, the messenger can ride from Annuminas or the Tower. How long will one of your ships take to get to the Harlond, Cirdan?"

The old Teleri spoke, his deep sonorous voice soothing. "The currents and the winds are against us at the moment. It will take several weeks at the very least to get a ship ready and to the port. Enough time to get Lord Finrod down to the coast in easy stages."

Gil-galad looked around the table. "Then we are agreed?"

Galadriel looked up from where her head had been resting on her husband's shoulder. It was the most intimate any of those present save Gil-galad had ever seen them and Thranduil and Amroth had been surprised at the depth of emotion and feeling that could be seen between the two.

"Yes. Yes, it must be so." Galadriel smiled sadly. "But first let him feel the sun and the moon and the stars here, before he goes to the West." She shivered. "And at the river mouth I will decide if I go with him."


End file.
